Chapter 3 - Part 7

The Iron Orphan stared at the dead men, holding his punctured torso with one hand, while leaning on the bars of his cell with the other. He stared at the dead humans, trying to comprehend what it was that drove them to kill. A madhouse of activity surrounded him as more humans interrogated the other warforged in the dungeon, went over the blank scrolls, the enchanted crossbows, and poking through the charred remains of his books, removing the few that were still good. One human with a pair of red stripes sown onto the shoulder of his tunic kept shouting questions at him, but the Orphan had not answered one yet. Indeed he had not spoken a word since they had arrived, running down the hallway with weapons drawn.

“Give it up,” said a human with a short beard on his chin to the one with the stripe. “He’s not going to answer you.” The human held a flask of some kind of oil that seemed to pulsate when it was in the Orphan’s peripheral vision, but appeared perfectly normal at other times. Something in the Orphan’s frame called to that oil, and it seemed ready to respond. “Can I repair him already?”

“He’s going to answer me or stay in the condition that he’s in!” growled the human with the stripes. “Unit 4311XD, I order you to –”

“Shut up before I stick my hand down your throat and squeeze your lungs closed,” the Orphan said suddenly. The words felt vile in his mouth, but he said them anyway. He meant them. He was tired of being afraid, tired of being polite, tired of all of it. He had posed no threat to the two dead men, and they had wanted to kill him. He was in no mood to be conciliatory.

The human with the stripes backed up and called the other ones for assistance. They began to circle him with clubs and swords. He ignored them until one behind him stepped in with a raised weapon. Sensing the man’s movement, the Iron Orphan ducked and spun, extending his leg out. His attacker shrieked as the Orphan’s heavy legs cracked some ribs and sent the man flying to the side. The Orphan’s conscience protested the man’s pain, but the warforged forced his sense of pity back down from whence it came.

Crossbows were raised, and the Orphan ignored them. There was an argument behind him, and he heard the one with the stripes yell indignantly.

“Unit 4311XD,” said an older voice. It was a man on the other side of the bars who was walking forward while holding a wand. He had white hair and he did not seem afraid.

“That’s not my name,” the Orphan told him.

“Well it is your unit number,” the white-haired human said. “What else should I call you?”

“I am Iron Orphan,” the warforged told the human. “And I am tired of your enmity. Now, you can have the magewright –”

“Artificer,” inject the man with the chin beard.

“Artificer, whatever, repair me, and then you can politely request that I go with you, or I will fight until I am dead or inert.”

“You have spirit for a golem,” the man told him. He raised his wand. “What if I told you that you would do as I said or I would blow you to pieces?” The dragonshard at the end of his wand began to glow.

“Whoever sent this many people down here to protect me from these two dead men wants me up there alive,” the Iron Orphan told him. “You’re bluffing.”

The man lowered his wand. “Alright then,” he said, gesturing. The artificer came forward a bit hesitantly, but the Orphan allowed the human to open the oil and pour it on him. The Orphan grunted as he felt his fibers reknitting, the materials within his body realigning. The pain from his side ended and the burn marks faded away, showing a construction as whole and as new as the day he was manufactured.

And the numbers on his shoulder disappeared completely.

“Now, Mr. Orphan, would you kindly come with us?” said the man with the wand. The dragonshard was still glowing. “Or do I have to blow off your legs, which will hurt a great deal but still allow you to speak?”

“Sure,” the Orphan said, striding quickly out of his cell. The humans gripped their weapons and hurried to follow him.